


De Profundis

by SymbioticAntithesis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Addiction, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Past Drug Use, mild psychological issues, unorthodox doctor-patient relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 03:03:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SymbioticAntithesis/pseuds/SymbioticAntithesis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is good at his job, but nothing could have prepared him for Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>Written for the AO3 fundraiser auction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	De Profundis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Erindors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erindors/gifts).



> I feel terrible for taking so long on this, but I hope it's satisfactory.
> 
> I did my best to portray drug addiction and its aftermath as realistically as possible, but if I did anything majorly wrong _please_ tell me so I can fix it.
> 
> Not Brit-picked, so all mistakes are my own.

_De profundis – Latin; out of the depths_

~*+=

The first time John Watson met Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock stayed in the room for no more than five minutes before storming out.

The second time was only marginally better – Sherlock steadfastly ignored John for an entire fifteen minutes before leaving without a word.

The third time, John managed to have a brief conversation with Sherlock until John accidentally-on-purpose insulted him and Sherlock left.

The fourth time, Sherlock ruthlessly dissected every aspect of John’s life from his clothes, his speech, and seemingly insignificant objects on his person that John couldn’t help but breathlessly say, “That was brilliant.”

The fifth time, they had sex.

And that was when things got really complicated.

~*+=

“You sure you don’t want to share a cab?”

“No, I’m not too far.”

Mike Stamford nodded, “Right, then.  Cheers, mate.” 

“Cheers,” John said, raising an arm in goodbye, watching his friend bumble away.  He turned to head for the main road when the phone booth across the street started to ring.  John frowned, perplexed, but he shook his head and walked on. 

When he reached King’s Road, he checked the time and sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his face.  Maybe he shouldn’t have gone for a pint with Mike; he had a new client first thing in the morning and he hadn’t even looked over his profile and records.

Nothing he could do about it now, really.  He continued down King’s Road and passed a fish and chip store when their phone started to ring.  John paused and stared at it for a moment, then a disgruntled and tired looking employee went over to answer it.  But when he reached out a hand to pick up the phone, the ringing stopped.  The man frowned, shrugged, and went back to his duties.  John narrowed his eyes at the phone, curious and just a bit perturbed.

He only walked a few more yards when he passed another telephone booth and _its_ phone started to ring.  Again, John stopped and eyed the phone warily.  Curiosity got the better of him, however, and he opened the booth and stepped in, picking up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“There is a security camera on the building to your left,” a man’s voice said.  “Do you see it?”

There was a long pause and John licked his lips, suddenly uneasy.  “Who’s this?  Who’s speaking?”

“Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?”

John straightened at the sound of his name.  Who was this person?  He peered out of the phone booth, seeing nobody suspicious or anything out of the ordinary.  Then again, if this man was clever enough to track him in the middle of central London, then John shouldn’t have been surprised.  He glanced up at the building and caught sight of the camera the man mentioned.  “Yeah, I see it.”

“Watch.”  And the camera swiveled to the right.  “There is another camera on the building opposite you.  Do you see it?”  John answered in the affirmative and that camera also turned to the right.  “And finally, at the top of the building on your right.”

“How are you doing this?”

“Get in the car, Doctor Watson.”  A black sedan pulled up to the curb in front of the phone booth.  John watched as the driver got out of the car and opened the back door.  “I would make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you.”  There was the telltale _click_ of the receiver and a dial tone, and John pulled the phone away from his ear and replaced it onto its cradle.

John exited the booth and after a brief pause, dutifully got into the car.  There was a woman sitting serenely on the seat next to him, absently tapping away at her Blackberry.  He closed the door and they were off.

 _What the hell is going on?_   He glanced over to the woman, who continued to type on her phone.  She was pretty; her dark brown curls brushing against her collarbone.  She didn’t look menacing in the least – relaxed and comfortable – and he wondered what kind of man her employer was.

“Hello.”

She looked up briefly and gave him a smile, “Hi.”  Her attention returned to her phone and the silence dragged on for several seconds.

“What’s your name, then?”

“Uh . . .” she hedged, not looking up from the screen.  “Anthea.”

“Is that your real name?”

Anthea gave him an almost pitying look, “No.”

He frowned.  Right.  Okay.  “I’m John." 

“Yes, I know.”  He could hear the smile in her voice, like she was inwardly laughing at him. 

“Any point in asking where I’m going?” 

“None at all,” she said, the smile still on her lips.  “John.”

The rest of the ride passed in silence.  John wondered idly what he possibly could have done to garner what was essentially a kidnapping.  Malpractice?  No, he wouldn’t have been _picked off the streets_ if that were so.  His sister?   _Oh Gods_ , he winced.  Harry wasn’t _that_ crazy, but if she was behind this, he’d make sure that she’d never hear the end of it.  He continued to rifle through his memories, but he couldn’t think of anything that could explain his situation. 

When the car pulled into a deserted and dilapidated warehouse, John was more than convinced that this was a mistake in one form or another.  Anthea and the driver said nothing when they came to a stop and John licked his lips a bit nervously, though confident that he _hadn’t done anything wrong._

“So – ?” he started questioningly.

“Don’t keep him waiting,” Anthea said absently, not looking up from her phone.

“Right,” John said, confused.  He shook his head minutely and opened the door, stepping out cautiously.  John took in his surroundings and the warehouse was well and truly abandoned.  He had been vaguely paying attention to the route the driver took, and John guessed that they were in Battersea.  As his eyes roved the structure of the power station, he saw a man standing several meters ahead, leaning casually on an umbrella, dressed in an impeccable three-piece suit. 

Pursing his lips, he started forward.  “I think there’s been a mistake.”

“There’s been no mistake, Doctor Watson,” the man said.

John frowned, “How do you figure that?  I haven’t done anything wrong.”

The man smiled, a small twitch of his lips.  “Oh, I know.  This isn’t about the law.”

John stopped in front of the man, now more confused than ever.  “What?”

“Doctor John H. Watson,” the man said calmly, smoothly. “Ph.D. in psychiatry and drug rehabilitation.”

“Who are you?” John asked, surprise and alarm flaring inside him.

“Mycroft Holmes.”

“You couldn't have just phoned me?  On my phone?  I do have one, you know.”  Mycroft’s lip twitched in amusement.  “What do you want?  What’s this about?”

“I brought you here to make you an offer.”

“An offer,” he repeated, deadpan. 

“And when I say ‘offer’,” Mycroft said, shrugging gracefully.  “It means I insist that you accept.”

“Of course,” he said dryly.

Mycroft stared at him for long moments and John refused to fidget.  He met Mycroft’s gaze and held it until Mycroft smiled and inclined his head in approval.  “Your records state that you have an incredibly high success rate with your clients, possibly the best in your field.  Very impressive, considering your age.”  John frowned, unsure whether or not he should take that as a compliment.  “However, the person whom I wish you to accept as your patient is, shall we say, _difficult_.”

“Wait, you want me to take one of _your_ patients as my own?”

“He’s not one of my patients, but essentially yes.”

John gaped at Mycroft, bewildered.  “What?  Why?”

“As I said, he’s rather difficult.”

“And what d’you mean by that?” John asked, curious in spite of himself.

Mycroft let out a long-suffering sigh.  “He’s childish and selfish.  He sees too much and yet too little.  He’s incredibly intelligent but doesn’t utilize his mind to its potential.  He’s brutally honest and ignores societal structures.  I could go on, but I wouldn’t want you to be put off before you meet him.”  He gave John a small smile, and he could tell that whatever the relationship was between Mycroft and the other man, it was strained but Mycroft was nonetheless worried for his friend’s wellbeing.

“Okay,” he said haltingly.  “Who is this person?”

“He’s my brother.”

John’s jaw dropped marginally and his eyes widened.  _Oh._   “Does he know you’re doing this?”

Mycroft tilts his head in thought as if John had just posed a difficult question.  “Yes and no,” he finally answered.  “As of right now he doesn’t, but once I return he will undoubtedly figure it out.”

“Okay,” he said, licking his lips.  “Does he _want_ this?”

“Not particularly.”

John sighed, “It’s difficult to help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.”

“I am aware of that, John,” Mycroft said, voice hard, and John startled a bit at the use of his given name.  “However, if I had not intervened when I did, he would likely be dead.”  Mycroft pinned him with a steady look.  “As much as he may despise me for what I have done and what I am doing, he is my brother, regardless.”

John let out a shaky breath.  “I understand.”  And he did; he really did.  One of the reasons he decided on this career was because of his family.  First his father then his sister – both had an addiction, both refused to acknowledge it, and John was always the one picking up the pieces.  He became a rehabilitator to help other families, to prevent what had happened to his if he could.

“I know you do,” Mycroft said, a hint of sympathy in his voice.

“How would this work, then?  He won’t willingly come to my office if he doesn’t want to detox.”

“He is staying with me at present so my driver will pick you up at your flat and bring you to mine.  Phillip will take you to your office afterward.  Acceptable?” 

“Uh – ” John stammered.  “I suppose,” he said before he could properly think his answer through.  Bugger, did he just agree to take Mycroft’s brother as a patient?  Inadvertently?

“Good.  We shall start tomorrow.”

“Hang on, I have a client tomorrow morning – ”

“Cancel it.”  John opened his mouth to argue but Mycroft continued, “The compensation to rehabilitate my brother will more than make up for the loss of Mr. Harrison’s patronage.  Besides, I glanced at his records, I hardly think he’s worthy of your time and talents.”

“How do you know all of this?” he asked, a part of him impressed and the other peeved.

“I’m sure you’ll know soon enough, Doctor Watson.  My brother is very . . . _vocal_ on his opinions of me.”

“And yet you are incredibly secretive.”

“So is he.”

“Right,” John grumbled, resigned; he didn't seem to have any choice in the matter.  “What’s your brother’s name?”

“His name is Sherlock Holmes and I’m afraid that you will have your work cut out for you.”

~*+=

Mycroft’s brother wasn’t at all what John expected him to be.  Well, he hadn’t really known _what_ to expect – all he knew was what Mycroft had told him.  But in all honesty, this tall, thin (too thin, almost skeletal), sharp-eyed man certainly wasn’t at the top of the list.

Sherlock glared at John petulantly from across the room, his knees folded up against his chest.  His complexion was pale, eyes bloodshot, hair a floppy mess.  He was dressed haphazardly in a loose-fitting shirt and pajama bottoms, and he still had the hospital’s plastic bracelet on his wrist.  He clearly didn’t want to be here.

“So,” John licked his lips.  Damn, this was going to be difficult.  Even without Mycroft’s prior warnings, John knew just by looking at Sherlock that he would not be an easy patient.  Where should he even begin?

John cleared his throat and shifted in his chair.  Usually he’d start with asking about the patient, what they wanted to achieve through their sessions, their plans after they turned their life around.  But Sherlock was a unique case; he wasn’t here voluntarily and it made the treatment process much more complicated and difficult.

He opened his mouth to speak again, but Sherlock unfolded himself from the couch and walked out the door without a word.

Well.

Then there’s that.

~*+=

Sherlock’s next session was a few days later, and John had mixed feelings about whether or not he ought to continue.  But John was a stubborn man and he had only met with Sherlock once; surely it could only get better from here on out.

Mycroft finally sent over Sherlock’s medical records and John was relieved that he would have more information before their next meeting.  John settled in for a long night as he reviewed Sherlock’s folder.  The further he read, the more he wanted to see Sherlock through until the end.  Because Mycroft was right (but of course he was) – Sherlock would be a difficult patient and if John couldn’t rehabilitate him, then he was pretty sure no one else could.  He felt nothing but sympathy for Sherlock, and even just a touch guilty.  Here he was reading up on something that should be private, intimate information about Sherlock’s past – medically, mentally, physically, and even emotionally – and John hasn’t even had a proper conversation with him yet.

The next time John was driven to Mycroft’s flat, John decided to try a different tactic.  He moved the chair he sat in last time out into the hallway and settled himself on one end of the couch.  There was nowhere else for Sherlock to sit other than next to him.

He waited for Sherlock to enter.

John glanced around the room idly, taking in his surroundings; last time he hadn’t had the time.  The room was incredibly bare.  It felt cold and uninviting, sterile and lifeless.  The walls were bare save for one large mirror framed with gold filigree hanging opposite the couch.  There was a large mahogany desk across of him, under the mirror.  The sofa he was sitting on was incredibly soft, black leather.  Both pieces of furniture were obviously expensive and high quality.  There were also two side tables aligned with the sofa, also in mahogany, and a lone potted plant by the doorway.

The door clicked open and he glanced up.  Sherlock stood at the threshold, eyes narrowed in suspicion.  He was in the same rumpled clothes, his hair even messier than last time.  His gaze darted around the room then he finally strode forward and sat on the opposite side of the couch, as far away from John as possible.  He folded his legs underneath him, his bare feet curled underneath his buttocks.

John quietly watched him and Sherlock stared ahead of him, completely ignoring John’s presence.  The minutes dragged on, and still neither of them said a word.  John did notice, however, that the tense line of Sherlock’s shoulders slowly but surely started to ease the longer they sat in silence.  He drank in Sherlock’s physique – overly thin from prolonged cocaine use, sharp cheekbones, elegant hands, long legs, and piercing blue-green eyes.  Though their color seemed to change depending on the light.  John thought that he was undeniably beautiful.

He sat quietly and hoped that if he waited for Sherlock to start a conversation, they might be able to progress on his terms.  It worked with his more stubborn patients.  But with what he knew about Sherlock, he wasn’t sure if the same method would work.  Especially if Sherlock was as cognitive as Mycroft had suggested despite his drug use, then John was nowhere near the same intellectual capacity.  Sherlock would probably know immediately if John were trying to dissect his mind or trying to wheedle information out of him.

John wasn’t sure how long they sat in each other’s company, but Sherlock eventually stood and left the room.  The door clicked behind the brunet and John slowly let out a breath.  Sherlock had looked more relaxed and the oppressing atmosphere in the room had lifted.  He smiled; they may not have conversed, but they had progressed nonetheless.

~*+=

“Your brother’s a dick,” John said once Sherlock entered the room.  John figured that if he couldn’t get Sherlock to talk through conventional means, then he’d try something else.  Besides, their last session had been better than their first and hopefully their streak could continue.

Sherlock raised an amused eyebrow, settling himself on the opposite side of the couch.  “What did he do this time?” he said in a low, smooth baritone.

John had to hide a please smile; good to know that Mycroft would loosen Sherlock’s tongue almost immediately.  “Being Mycroft.”

Sherlock’s lip twitched, “Yes, he has that effect on people.”

They fell into silence, but this time it wasn’t awkward or stilted.  It was almost . . . comfortable.  John didn’t feel the need to say anything and Sherlock looked more at ease than the last two times he saw him.

“May I ask you something?” John said after a few long moments.

Sherlock turned to him, his expression unreadable.  “You may.”

John licked his lips, suddenly nervous.  Perhaps he shouldn’t ask, but it was already too late to retract his intent.  And as unorthodox he was being with even _thinking_ about asking such a question, John was nevertheless curious.  He’d never be so upfront with any of his other patients but a part of him felt that Sherlock would prefer honesty.  So with that thought steeling his resolve, he plowed ahead.  “Why do you resent Mycroft so much?”

And just like that, Sherlock’s face shut down.  His eyes hardened, his brow furrowed, his lips pursed.  “No.”

John inwardly winced.  He started to apologize, but Sherlock cut him off.  “You’re not,” he accused, and John swallowed audibly.  Sherlock focused his gaze on him.  “You’re curious, which is understandable.  But I will not answer.  You know full well that I am not here on my own volition.”

“No, I know,” John said.  A pause, then, “Then why _are_ you here?”

Sherlock stared at him, expressionless, for a long time.  John was just about to fill the silence again when Sherlock stood and glided out of the room, wordless.

 _Note to self_ , John thought, sighing.   _Only insults about Mycroft will get Sherlock to open up, albeit marginally._   Maybe next time he ought to let Sherlock lead the conversation.

~*+=

Sherlock was late.

John wondered if Sherlock somehow managed to tell Mycroft to bugger off.  He had a strong feeling that Mycroft was forcing Sherlock to these sessions through coercion and blackmail.  Sherlock seemed to be an incredibly stubborn and headstrong man, and nothing else could submit someone that proud into something he didn’t want to do.  Though Mycroft had good intentions, he was showing his concerns the wrong way.

He still hoped though, that Sherlock would see past Mycroft and see him, John, instead.  It was a faint hope, but it was there.

John decided to wait a few more minutes before calling the session a bust.  He started to pick absently at the threads of his jumper, bored.  The door clicked open a few moments later and he startled, his gaze snapping to the entrance.

The moment Sherlock entered the room – still in his baggy clothes – John felt those piercing blue eyes rove up and down his person.  He should have felt uncomfortable at his gaze, but John was steadfast.

Sherlock moved closer until he was standing before the armrest of the couch.  They stared at each other for a while longer before Sherlock started to speak.  “You have family that had an addiction, it’s likely the reason why you chose this profession.   It’s still a sore subject for you, but you’re loyal to them regardless.”  His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing, “You never tried to force them into rehab, because you believe that they need to _want_ to change before change can happen.

“A part of you dislikes the fact that my brother is forcing me to these sessions but you still feel that you can try and help me, despite my reluctance.  That’s why you were so hesitant to ask your question last time.  You think that Mycroft cares but you don’t agree with his actions.”

His eyes darted down to the hem of John’s jumper where he had been picking at it.  “Your jumper is old, a decade maybe more.  A gift from a loved one, but unlikely a lover because she would have bought another one once she saw it wearing thin.  It’s handmade – conclusion, it’s from your mother but she passed away several years ago.  You’re unwilling to throw it away because you were close to her so that means that it was your father who was an addict.  You were the one to comfort her, to try and keep your family together.

“You hate the fact that your father’s addiction tore your family apart but you refused to see it happen to others so you decided to help them instead of becoming resentful.  You’re one of the best drug rehabilitators, but Mycroft also chose you because he thought you’d be able to match my stubbornness and tenacity.  Am I wrong?”

John gaped at Sherlock, astonished.  Just as Mycroft had suggested, Sherlock was quick-witted, silver-tongued, and incredibly intelligent.  But he hadn’t expected Sherlock to dissect practically his whole life story from just his clothes, posture, and speech.  It was –

“Brilliant,” he breathed.

Sherlock froze, then his eyes brightened, gaze boring into John.  “Was it really?”

“Of course it was.  That was amazing.”

Sherlock’s lip twitched, “That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

Sherlock smiled wanly, “Piss off.”

John laughed softly in disbelief.  “Yeah, well, it was bloody fantastic.”

“Did I miss anything?” he asked, his gaze sharp.

He licked his lips.  “My mum did knit this sweater for me over a decade ago.  My father was an alcoholic and I was always the one to keep the family together.  My sister is unfortunately following in his footsteps and is determined to drink herself into an early grave.  Everything else you said is also true.  Mycroft didn’t exactly give me a choice in the matter when he propositioned me.”

“A _sister_ ,” Sherlock said, sounding aggrieved.  “You have a sister.  I always miss something.”

“Well, I never mentioned her.”

Sherlock glanced at him.  “No, you didn’t.”

“Neither am I wearing anything that could give it away.”

Sherlock’s lip twitched again.  “No, you’re not.”

They fell into silence again and John was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Sherlock had analyzed him so thoroughly with a mere look.  He wouldn’t have believed it was possible if he hadn’t experienced it firsthand.

“So,” John started, debating on how to continue the conversation.  “Have you always been able to do that?”

A flicker of emotion crossed Sherlock’s features, but John wasn’t able to pinpoint what it was.  “Yes.  That is my blessing and my curse.  I see everything.  My mind is in constant motion and rebels at stagnation.”  He swallowed and John distractedly traced the bob of Sherlock’s Adam’s apple with his eyes.  “Do you see?”

John wretched his gaze away from the other man’s throat and met Sherlock’s eyes, the intensity behind them breathtaking.  “I’m starting to.”

Sherlock stared at him for long moments and John refused to fidget.  Finally, after what felt like hours, Sherlock inclined his head, turned heel, and left the room.  And John was once again left baffled, disoriented, and alone.

~*+=

“He’s going through withdrawal symptoms,” Mycroft said the moment John stepped into the flat.

“Oh.”  John bit his lip.  “Is this the first time since the hospital?”

Mycroft nods.  “Honestly, I’m surprised that the symptoms didn’t show sooner.”

John gave a wry smile.  “Yeah, well.  You never know.”  He licked his lips, “Should I – ?”

“Only if you think you can handle him in this state.” Medieval

John raised an eyebrow, wondering why Mycroft hadn’t informed him sooner of the situation.  He could’ve told John somehow that he may not need his services today.  Except that John _wanted_ to be here, regardless the mental state Sherlock was in.  He wouldn’t deny that the other man fascinated him that extended beyond professionalism.  “All right.  I’ll see what I can do.  Tell me exactly what’s he’s doing or saying.”

“He’s manic,” Mycroft promptly answered.  “He’s shaking.  I can tell his heart rate is undeniably high, just by looking at him.  And he’s pacing the room, demanding narcotics.”

John let out a breath, “Right.  Okay.”  He straightened his back and made his way down the main hallway and towards his and Sherlock’s usual room.  When he entered the room and quietly shut the door behind him, his heart clenched at the sight before him.

Sherlock was muttering to himself, a thumb between his teeth, striding back and forth across the floor.  He was nibbling his thumb hard enough to bleed, and his breaths were coming fast and hard.  His free hand was scratching his other arm absently.

John took a tentative step forward, and the movement seemed to pierce through Sherlock’s haze.  Sherlock froze and turned to him.  “John,” he croaked.  His eyes drifted up and down John’s body then he snapped his attention back to John’s face.  “I need some.  Get me some,” he said, words tumbling together.  His shaky hands ran through his hair, down his face.  “I have to make it stop.  I can’t – you’re a doctor, you can get me some.”

“Sherlock,” John took another step forward, reaching a hand out to the trembling man.  “Just sit down, okay?”

“No!” he shouted, striding jerkily forward, right into John’s personal space.  “I can’t!” he hissed, his eyes wild.  “My mind is tearing itself apart; I need something, _anything_.  Stimulation.  _I need something to stop it_.”

His gaze was darting quickly around the room, across John’s face and body, his pupils dilated.  He couldn’t focus on one thing for very long, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, and John felt pain and sympathy for this man.  This mad, brilliant man who was so obviously in need of help, even if he refused it.

“Sherlock,” he reached forward and gripped Sherlock’s elbow.  “Sit down.”  John tugged at Sherlock’s arm gently, guiding him to the nearby couch.  Unfortunately, that seemed like the wrong thing to do.

With a sudden and surprising burst of strength, Sherlock wretched out of John’s hold and pushed him backwards.  John stumbled and fell back onto the couch and before he could react further, Sherlock was on top of him, straddling his waist.  He stared up at Sherlock in shock, his heart seizing in his chest.  Perhaps out of nervousness, perhaps out of anticipation – but anticipation of what, exactly?

“John,” Sherlock whispered as he lowered his face down to John’s throat.  “I can’t – I need – ” he stuttered, his fingers clenching on John’s shoulders.  He let out a tremulous breath, then Sherlock’s hands were everywhere, and John stiffened under the uninhibited exploration of his body.  “Clavicle, sternum, humerus,” Sherlock muttered, his fingers tracing down his chest, his arms.  “True ribs, false ribs, radius, ulna,” he continued.  “Rectus abdominus, serratus anterior, external oblique.”  Sherlock reached his thighs and hips, and John would be lying if he claimed that Sherlock’s touch wasn’t affecting him.  But it was wrong, wrong, _wrong_.  Sherlock was his _patient_ , this can’t – _couldn’t_ – happen.

“Gluteus medius, tensor faciae latae, pectinius.”  Sherlock reached the hem of John’s trousers and John’s breath caught in his throat.  The brunet’s fingers graced over John’s groin and John tensed further, unwarranted arousal pooling in his gut.

He brought a hand to Sherlock’s chest, pushing the other man away.  “Sherlock, stop.”

Sherlock ignored him and harshly palmed John’s burgeoning erection.  John hissed and grit his teeth in pain, head falling back against the couch.  “Ischiocavernosus, corpora cavernosa, corpus spongiosum,” Sherlock whispered, his ministrations gentling as he deftly unbuttoned and unzipped John’s trousers, slipping his hand unceremoniously under John’s pants.  His other hand gripped John’s hips hard enough to bruise.

John’s mind was a mess of _yes, good, more_ and _no, wrong, stop_.  He could easily push Sherlock away, but what would that do to his mind?  Mentally, Sherlock was unstable, he was lashing out in desperation – it wasn’t uncommon for addicts to trade sex for drugs.  But was this what this was?  Was Sherlock in the mindset that if he sexually pleasured John that he’d get another hit of cocaine?

“John,” said Sherlock as he firmly stroked John’s arousal.  John opened his eyes, and Sherlock’s face filled his vision.  His eyes were clear, less manic, yet there was a hint of desperation and fear.  Sherlock thumbed the head of his cock and John couldn’t hold back a soft moan.  “Shaft,” he said as his hand stroked up John’s penis.  “Frenulum,” he pressed firmly against John’s frenulum, “Prepuce,” he pulled the foreskin forward, “Corona, glans,” he squeezed the head, twisting his wrist.  John cursed softly, and Sherlock moved his hand back down to the base of John’s cock, his touch light but unmistakably there.  Sherlock leaned in closer, his expression a mess of emotions, a silent plea.

And then John understood.  Or thought he understood.

Sherlock had said he needed any sort of mental stimulation and if he couldn’t get the drugs for it, he had turned to the next best thing: John.  A body to explore, sex to distract.  And though his mind was still shouting _no, bad, don’t, wrong_ , another part of him was saying _help him_.  So he pushed the reprimanding voice away, the unorthodoxy, and hesitantly brought his hands up to rest on Sherlock’s hips.

John saw a flash of relief flit across Sherlock’s expression before he ducked his head and rested his brow against John’s shoulder.  Sherlock started to pump his fist languidly and John’s fingers traced the brunet’s bony hips, his breathing unsteady.  John traced the hem of Sherlock’s pajama bottoms and Sherlock pressed their crotches closer together.  He took the action as an invitation, and John dipped his fingers underneath the band of Sherlock’s sweats.  Sherlock was only half-hard, but John wrapped his fingers around him and started to stroke steadily, firmly.

Sherlock shuddered.  “John,” he groaned.  He moved his fist faster, twisting at the head, his thumb swiping at the pre-come pearling at the tip.  John grit his teeth, tension coiling at the base of his spine.   His head was thrown back against the headrest of the couch, his throat exposed, and Sherlock shifted and ghosted his lips against his neck.  John gasped, and Sherlock’s tongue lapped softly at the veins and tendons.

“Sternocleidomastoid, levator scapulae, scalenus medius,” he murmured, tracing the muscles of John’s neck.  He licked back up to John’s chin, to the back of his ear, to the shell.

“Sherlock,” John hissed, his fingers twitching on Sherlock’s hip, his grip tightening around Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock’s rolled his pelvis against his, their cockheads grazing against each other.  They both moaned softly, and Sherlock shifted even closer until their erections were aligned, the heat of their arousals making John dizzy with lust.  Sherlock swatted John’s hand away from his dick and wrapped his long fingers around them both.

“Fuck,” John groaned, both his hands resting on Sherlock’s hips again.  The slick slide of Sherlock’s cock against his, and Sherlock jerking them steadily towards orgasm wiped his mind of coherent thought and desire overtook him, desire for release, desire to see Sherlock come.  He lifted his head and leaned forward, breathing against Sherlock’s ear.  John nipped lightly at the outer shell and Sherlock snapped his hips forward, grinding their erections impossibly closer.

John groaned, thrusting up against Sherlock, the friction and pressure hurtling him closer to climax.  He reached down and placed his palm flat against the head of their cocks, and Sherlock’s breath hitched, his motions faltering.  Then John swirled his hand in a circular motion, smearing their pre-come across the glans.  Sherlock gasped, his breath hot against John’s neck.

Sherlock started to tense, his movements erratic.  John moved his hand lower and stretched his fingers around the base of their erections, matching his rhythm with Sherlock’s.  A few more strokes and Sherlock was coming, the warmth of his ejaculate making John groan softly.  Sherlock panted, his hand still moving, his release making the slide smoother, slicker, dirtier.  It didn’t take much longer for John to tip over the edge, and he grit his teeth to prevent himself from shouting.

He rested his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing heavily, and Sherlock slumped against him, boneless.

“All right?” John murmured, his sex-addled brain slow and incoherent.

Sherlock didn’t answer, but he did slide his clean hand to the back of John’s head, lightly running his fingers through his hair.  His breath was hot against John’s collarbone, the hollow of his throat.

John sighed and also lifted a hand to absently play with the errant curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck.  They sat in silence, their breaths slowing, their hearts calming, their come cooling between them.  And as he came down from his orgasm, John’s mind started to spiral into turmoil.  _What have I done?_

~*+=

Sherlock was the first to move.  He leaned back slightly and John, his eyes still closed, brow still resting against Sherlock’s shoulder, didn’t know what he ought to do next.  “John,” Sherlock broke the stillness between them quietly.  John made a questioning noise, not trusting his voice yet.  “Thank you.”  He said it so softly that despite their proximity, John barely caught his words.  Maybe Sherlock hadn’t even intended for him to hear him.

John swallowed hard, his thoughts chaotic.  What was the appropriate response to that?  _You’re welcome_ seemed trashy, _anytime_ slutty, and _it’s okay_ dishonest.  So John decided to answer with silence.  And Sherlock didn’t seem to mind.

Several more minutes passed before Sherlock slid off John’s lap and stood in front of him, tucking himself back into his sweats, and John did the same.  Sherlock pulled off his shirt and cleaned up the mostly dried come on his and John’s hand; there wasn’t much he could do for John’s jumper, though.

John wrinkled his nose at the stains and Sherlock shrugged dispassionately.  And John should be annoyed at his nonchalance, angry and terrified at the unconventional turn of their doctor-patient relationship, but John ruthlessly shoved all those emotions away into the far reaches of his mind.  He’d deal with the implications of their actions later.

Right now he needed to focus on Sherlock, his patient.

“Mycroft will be peeved,” Sherlock said.

John winced, “He’ll know, won’t he?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Fantastic.”

“I won’t let him sack you.”

He blinked, taken off-guard.  “What?”

Sherlock averted his gaze, frowning.  “You heard me.”

John let out a breath, “Why?”

He turned back to John, his otherworldly eyes locking with his.  “For many reasons,” he said enigmatically.

John licked his lips, brow furrowed.  “Right,” he said, confused.

They maintained eye contact for long moments, and John should feel uncomfortable, awkward, but he didn’t.  Despite the fact that what they just did was very unorthodox and could have his license revoked, could have him stripped of his entire career.

Mycroft wouldn’t exactly approve, but John would like to believe that he would overlook their – _his_ – misdemeanor.  Sherlock was an unconventional patient; surely unconventional methods were also necessary.  It didn’t take away the fact that it was incredibly unprofessional, though, and if John were to continue to treat Sherlock, he’d have to take a step back.

Yes, it had happened, but it couldn’t happen again.  Yes, he should have handled the situation differently, but it was too late for ‘what ifs’.

And he _wanted_ to.  Wanted to be Sherlock’s therapist, wanted to have Sherlock as his patient, even if they might run into similar situations in the future.  He must be mad.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock said, and John belatedly realized that he must have said that last bit out loud.

He let out a huff of amusement and disbelief.  John rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair.  “I suppose we’re all mad,” he said, half joking.

Sherlock’s lip twitched, “We wouldn’t be here if we weren’t.”

And John, feeling ridiculous, laughed.  Yeah, this was probably a really bad idea – hell, they were quoting Lewis Carroll for fuck’s sake – but who said that John wasn’t a bit mad?

~*+=

“Something wrong, John?”

“What?” John startled.  He and Mike Stamford were out having a pint and watching football, but his mind was a mile away.  It’s been a few days since he’s seen Sherlock and since _that_ happened, and he couldn’t get his mind off it.  He was beating himself up over his actions and decisions and though there wasn’t anything he could do about it now, it _bothered_ him.  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he lied blatantly.

Mike raised an eyebrow, clearly not believing him, and John sighed, taking a large gulp of beer.  “It’s one of my patients,” he relented.

“Ah,” Mike said, settling into his seat.  “What happened?”

John bit his lip.  Mike was one of John’s few friends he trusted completely.  Though he doesn’t particularly _want_ Mike to know about his infraction, he apparently needed to work on keeping his emotions off his face.  “I think I screwed up,” he hedged.  John couldn’t tell him the whole truth, but at least he could give him an idea of the dilemma he’s in.

“Okay?” Mike said, implicitly telling John that he needed more information than ‘I think I screwed up’.

John groaned and rubbed a palm over his face.  “I might have breached doctor-patient protocol.”  Well _that_ was putting it lightly.

There was a pregnant pause and John refused to look up and see what kind of expressions that may be flashing across Mike’s face.  “That’s unlike you,” Mike finally said, nonjudgmental.

He let out a small laugh of relief.  “I know.”

“You think your patient will do something about it?”

“No.  He won’t.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

John chuckled humorlessly and took another swig of beer.  Of course Mike wouldn’t fully understand the implications of what he and Sherlock had done, but then again, he didn’t _want_ anyone else to know the extent of his transgression.  “We both knew that we were breaching protocol,” he said.  “And now I’m regretting my decision.”

Mike hummed in thought.  “Did it help him, at least?”

“Yes,” he said, thinking about how _lost_ Sherlock had looked, how his symptoms had reduced drastically when his mind could focus on something with laser-like precision and intent.  “Yes it did.”

“Then it should be all right, shouldn’t it?”

John shrugged.

“There’s more to it, isn’t there?”

He nodded, but didn’t offer anything else.

Mike eyed him for a second then said, “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

John sighed, “I hope you’re right.”

~*+

True to his word, Sherlock had convinced – bribed?  Blackmailed? – Mycroft into keeping John as his personal therapist.  It was clear the next time John saw the elder Holmes that he disapproved, but there was something else in his demeanor that told John that despite what had happened, Mycroft still thought that John was the best and only man for the job.  That in itself should terrify John, question his own abilities, question _Mycroft_ , but he merely accepted the responsibility and hoped to prove him right.

The next time he and Sherlock met was a week later, and it wasn’t as awkward as John thought it would be.  They sat in their usual spots on the couch and Sherlock spoke first.  “The first time was in secondary school.  I was fourteen.”

John started at Sherlock’s voice.  “What?”

“It was painkillers, ibuprofen,” he continued, as if John hadn’t spoken.  “It helped mute the constant buzz of my mind.”

John didn’t say anything.  Were they _actually_ talking about this?  He was sure that Sherlock would take much longer before he started to open up.  But he supposed he shouldn’t complain; this was what Mycroft was paying him for in the first place.  And he wouldn’t deny he was incredibly curious.  Sherlock’s file had been quite detailed – the extent of Mycroft’s knowledge and influence quite frankly made John uncomfortable – but it had all been clinical, factual.  John wanted to hear the story from Sherlock.

“I was eighteen when I started to try harder drugs.  Methamphetamine, heroin, LSD, ecstasy, and – ” Sherlock paused, “Cocaine.”  He steepled his hands in front of his mouth, his lips brushing lightly against his fingers.  “Cocaine had the most pleasing effect and I took it throughout my first year of university.” 

Sherlock let out a breath his brow furrowed.   “The summer before my second year, I overdosed.”

“You were barely twenty,” John blurted, then promptly bit his lip – hard enough to draw blood – for interrupting.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, his lip twitching in amusement over John’s sudden hesitancy, and John relaxed, realizing that this conversation was really happening and Sherlock wasn’t about to lash out again.  “That was the first time Mycroft took me to rehab.  I hated him for it, still do.”

“He’s your brother,” John tried to reason.

Sherlock shrugged, “Regardless.”

“There’s more to it though, isn’t there?”

“Much more,” he conceded.  They fell into silence for a few moments until Sherlock started speaking again.  “I dropped out of university once I was released.  Then I hacked into my trust fund and travelled the world.”

John’s jaw dropped, “Just like that?”

Sherlock smirked, “Just like that.”

“Mycroft must have been furious,” John said, laughing silently.

“To say the least, yes.  He may have surveillance of all of England and most of the United Kingdom, but his power is significantly less overseas.”

“How long did you do that for?”

“A few years.  I returned to England when I started to run out of money.”  Sherlock shrugged, “Of course, Mycroft knew the moment I reentered the country.  He tried to set me up with Scotland Yard, something stimulating enough for my needs but all their cases were so utterly boring, and I started using again.”  He pursed his lips, “That was a year ago.”

“You helped Scotland Yard?”

“They’re imbeciles; can’t tell left from right let alone who the culprit is.”

“Not everyone has your mind, Sherlock.”

Sherlock snapped his gaze to John, his eyes narrowed.  “Yes, I am well aware of that, John.”

John lifted his hands in surrender, in apology.  “Did the cases help at all?” he asked after a moment of silence.

“A bit,” Sherlock admitted begrudgingly.  “Though many were pitifully easy to solve.  I’m only interested in the complex ones, the ones that matter.”

John worried his bottom lip, tasting the tang of blood from the accidental self-inflicted wound.  “Would you try again?”

Sherlock frowned, “Try what again?”

“Solving cases, stimulate your mind.”

His frown deepened, “It won’t last.”  And John heard the implied, _It didn’t last_ in Sherlock’s voice.  “Besides, I was kicked out multiple times for disturbing the crime scene.”

That startled a laugh out of John, “What, seriously?”

Sherlock gave him a minute smile, “Yes.”

John chuckled, “What’d you do then?  To rile them up?”

And Sherlock full on grinned, seemingly elated that someone was interested in his past antics, and John decided right then, in spite of everything, he would listen to Sherlock no matter what.

~*+=

John spoke to Mycroft the following day about the possibility of allowing Sherlock aid Scotland Yard again.  Mycroft had stared at John for a good minute before he conceded.

“I’ll speak to Gregory, he’ll want to know in advance that Sherlock might be encroaching on his duties.”

“Gregory is – ?”

“Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade,” Mycroft answered.  “One of the only people of Scotland Yard who can stand Sherlock for extended periods of time."

John made a faint noise of understanding, though he sensed that there was more to the relationship than Mycroft was letting on.  He had a feeling that any sort of relationship with Sherlock was “complicated”; the man himself was an enigma.

“In fact, John, I feel that you should meet him before we allow Sherlock onto any of the crime scenes.”

John blinked, “All right.”

Mycroft gave him a look, “So Gregory will know whom else to turn to if things go awry.”

“Of course,” John said dryly.

“Then shall we?”

“Right now?”

“Yes, John,” Mycroft said, a touch of amusement in his voice.  “Now.”

John sighed, “Right.”

Mycroft called for his driver and John followed dutifully behind the other man.  He slipped into the back of the car, Mycroft sitting serenely next to him, idly checking his phone.  “Gregory is more than competent at his job,” Mycroft spoke up, “But, naturally, Sherlock has a habit of condescending everyone simply because they are not quite on the same level as him.” 

“And the Detective Sergeant?”

“He took it in stride.  Thankfully I warned him ahead of time.  Otherwise, I do think that either or both would have ended up in the hospital with a few broken bones.”

John chuckled, “I wouldn’t have been surprised.”

“I do believe,” Mycroft said softly after a moment’s pause, “That Gregory may be his first friend in a while, though I doubt Sherlock would ever admit to it.”

John turned to look at Mycroft, an eyebrow raised.  “How do you figure?”

Mycroft gave him a small smile, “Observe, John, when you see them together.  I think you’ll see it quite clearly.”

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  The Holmes brothers were so impossible.  The rest of the ride passed in silence.

When the car pulled up in front of Scotland Yard, John spoke up, teasing, “You don’t kidnap the Detective Sergeant?”  He got out of the car, glancing over to Mycroft.

Mycroft smirked, “I did the first time.”  He came around to stand next to John on the curb, his ever-present umbrella next to him.

“That must have been interesting.”  _To say the least_ , John thought.  He wondered how Lestrade must have reacted to having a strange man take him away in a strange car to a strange location.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, as they walked through the doors of the building, “It was.”

“You should really think about finding a different way to contact people for the first time.  Unless you’re purposefully going for the most intimidating route.”

Mycroft grinned.  “Why John,” he said, “That’s the whole point.”

John huffed out a laugh in surprise and quickly ducked his head to hide his amusement.  He was sure, however, that Mycroft caught his laughter regardless.

They turned the corner and Mycroft went straight for one of the side offices, and John trotted after him, ignoring the curious stares they were getting from the people at the cubicles.  The door of the closest office was slightly ajar and Mycroft knocked lightly and pushed it open.  Mycroft entered and John followed, the man on the other side of the door looking rather startled.  John clicked the door closed behind him, feeling sympathetic for the Detective Sergeant and Mycroft’s megalomaniac ways.

“Gregory,” Mycroft said calmly, “It’s been a while.”

“Mycroft,” he replied, bemused.  “What are you doing here?”

“This is Doctor John Watson,” he gestured towards John, and John instinctively stepped forward and held out a hand.

“Hello,” he said.  “You must be Detective Sergeant Lestrade.”

Lestrade nodded and stood, shaking John’s hand firmly.  The detective was tall and handsome, his hair flecked with grey, and he still looked decidedly confused.  “You know I hate it when you spring things on me, Mycroft,” he said, frowning.  “What’s this about, then?”

“Sherlock.”

And with just Sherlock’s name, understanding dawned on Lestrade’s face.  “Ah.”  He sat back down, “What is it this time?”

“John thinks that Sherlock might benefit from solving cases again.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.  “He terrorized my entire team, Mycroft.  And he hardly seemed to _enjoy_ the cases.”

“Only the boring ones, I assume,” John said.

Lestrade looked over to John, and the detective’s lip twitched.  “Which was most of them, according to him,” he replied with a ghost of a smile.

“Well, then maybe just call him in for the more difficult ones.  It’ll help him, I think.”

Lestrade eyed John for a moment.  “You’re his therapist, then?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, “And you think it’ll help Sherlock?”

“Yes.”  John frowned, vaguely wondering if Lestrade was being implicitly condescending.

Silence fell as John and Lestrade scrutinized each other until Mycroft broke the tension.  “I’ll leave you two to sort it out; I have an appointment with the French ambassador in a half hour.  I trust the both of you will come to an agreement.”  And he glided out of the room.

“One day,” Lestrade said dryly, “That man is going to fall flat on his face when he tries to make his grand exit.”

John laughed and decided that anyone who poked fun at Mycroft couldn’t be that bad.

“Sit, John,” Lestrade said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk and John obeyed.  “So how’d Mycroft get to you, then?”

John smiled, “I don’t really know, actually.  Probably just snooped around ‘til he found my records and credentials and decided that I was the best bet to help his brother.”

Lestrade nodded, thoughtful.  “Sherlock is as stubborn as a mule.  Though sometimes I think he’s hardheaded just to get on Mycroft’s nerves.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Lestrade sighed, “So you’re probably wondering why Mycroft brought you to me.”

John shrugged, “Said that you and Sherlock knew each other before his relapse.”

“Relapse?  Is that what he’s calling it?” Lestrade said wryly.  “He would, wouldn’t he?”  The last bit was muttered to himself, but John overheard it anyway and he wasn’t sure what to make of it.  “Mycroft approached me about a year ago,” he said, leaning back in his chair, hands folded on his stomach.  “More or less coerced me into allowing his brother onto any case assigned to me.  I was furious at first, of course, and Sherlock was a menace.”  Lestrade chuckled, “But I suppose that’s what made me warm up to him.  No pretense, just pure honesty.

“I hate to say that he’s gotten me closer to my Detective Inspector promotion, but it’s true.”  He sighed, “Refused to let him on the crime scene when he was high as a kite, though.  Brilliant as he is, I wouldn’t allow it.”

“Probably didn’t prevent him from sneaking in anyway, though.”

Lestrade grinned, “Of course not.  Those were likely the most ridiculous and trying days I’ve ever had.”

John laughed, “He’s told me some stories about what he did to your team.”

“Did he?” Lestrade asked, surprised.

“Oyster sauce.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Lestrade wrinkled his nose, partly in amusement and partly in horror.  “Yeah, that was certainly an interesting day.”  A comfortable silence settled over them for a moment before Lestrade spoke again, “You really think it’d help him?  It didn’t help last time.”

John sighed, “I can’t think of anything else that would stimulate his mind in the way that he needs.  I’ll be with him, if that’s any consolation.”

Lestrade chuckled, “It is, actually.  Most of Scotland Yard hates him.”

“That’s . . .” John hesitated then barreled on, “Unfortunate.”

The detective gave him a sad smile, “It is.  But you’ve been getting on with him, it seems.”

“More or less,” John hedged, wincing internally at what exactly he and Sherlock had been up to a week ago.  “It’s been over a month.”

“Has it?” Lestrade smiled, bemused.  “Congratulations, then.  Not many people last that long.”

“No, I suppose not.”

Lestrade sobered, “Well, John,” he said, meeting John’s eyes.  “I hope this time the results are different, for all of our sakes.”

“Me too.”

~*+=

John continued his sessions with Sherlock, hoping every day that Lestrade would text him asking for their assistance.  Sherlock continued to be a whirlwind of activity – mentally or otherwise, and it was both overwhelming and exhilarating.  Sometimes Sherlock was calm and they’d talk about everything or nothing, depending on his mood.

_“What do you mean you didn’t know that the Earth goes around the sun?”_

_“It’s not important.”_

_“Not important.”_

_“Yes, not important, John.”_

_“It’s primary school stuff!”_

_“Well if I learned it, then I must have deleted it.”_

Other times, Sherlock would talk nonstop – once he named all the bones in the human body and John could do nothing but sit and listen in silence.

_“Frontal, parietal, temporal, occipital, sphenoid, ethmoid, mandible, maxilla – ”_

_“Sherlock – ”_

_“Palatine, zygomatic, nasal, lacrimal, inferior nasal conchae – ”_

_“Right, never mind.”_

He tried to understand Sherlock’s mental state but it was difficult, and ‘difficult’ was putting it lightly.  Realistically, John would never truly understand.  He could sympathize but in no way could he empathize.  Sherlock’s intelligence, the way his mind noticed and catalogued every little thing he saw, it was something John could understand in theory but could never truly _know_ – he didn’t have the same mental capabilities.  Sherlock was a genius and John most certainly wasn’t.

It was heartbreaking and ironic that Sherlock’s intelligence would be his detriment, that his brilliant mind would cause him to flail in desperation.

John texted Lestrade himself the second week, but the detective reluctantly informed him that there was nothing of import for Sherlock.  Both men knew that the menial cases would be pointless and a waste of both of their time.

By the third week, Sherlock snapped again.  When the taller man crowded into his space, John was immediately on edge.  Sherlock reached for John, but he managed to wriggle free from Sherlock’s fumbling grip.  He pushed Sherlock against the wall, pinning him with his hands firmly on Sherlock’s shoulders.  Sherlock may be larger, but he was weaker, still recovering from the cocaine and his refusal to eat more than one meal a day.

“Sherlock, stop,” he said.

“I can’t,” he hissed, trembling.  “ _John_.”

John pursed his lips.  He searched Sherlock’s expression, open and desperate.  “No, we can’t do this.”

“John,” Sherlock said, “We weren’t supposed do it the first time, either.”

He frowned.  “That was – ”

“Different?  Wrong?”  Sherlock rested his right hand on John’s hip, his left tugging lightly on the front of his jumper, bringing them closer.  “You’re lying.”

John scowls, “What would you have me do, Sherlock?  This isn’t right.  You know it, I know it.  Just because you convinced Mycroft to ignore it the first time, who’s to say that someone else might find out?”

“They won’t.”

“How can you say that?”

“John,” Sherlock said plaintively.  “You don’t believe it.  I know you don’t.”

He pursed his lips, feeling his resolve crack.

Sherlock leaned in, resting his forehead against John’s shoulder.  “John.  My mind won’t stop.  It can’t.  No matter what I try to do, it won’t stop.  That’s why – ” Sherlock paused, swallowing.  “I can’t,” he reiterated.

“Sherlock,” John said, tracing his fingers up Sherlock’s neck, across his jawline.  “I’m your _therapist._   This isn’t right.”

“It’s better than the alternative,” Sherlock replied, meeting John’s gaze.

“Maybe,” he said, frowning.  “Fuck, Sherlock, do you even know what you’re asking of me?”

“I do,” he said quietly, his eyes dropping to John’s chest.  “But I must ask it.  As ordinary as you are,” Sherlock paused, his eyebrows furrowed, and John bemusedly thought that he ought to be _insulted_ by that particular phrase.  “You intrigue me,” he continued, lifting his gaze, “And . . .” he trailed off, his eyes clouding over, his breath slowing.  He said nothing else for long moments, and John started to feel uneasy, pressed against the taller man.  Could he?  He’d done it once, but one sexual encounter with a patient was bad enough, but twice?  No, it was unprofessional.  If he did this, he was certain that Sherlock would start to unconsciously reach for John whenever his withdrawal symptoms were at its worse.  And that _wasn’t right_.

John should be ethical and pull away, find another option – surely there was an alternative.  But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that there _wasn’t_ any.  Or maybe he simply didn’t want to find another way.

Sherlock was gorgeous and incredibly fascinating.  It’s been nearly two months and Sherlock always managed to surprise him.  He didn’t know what it was exactly, but he felt inexplicably drawn to the other man.  And, it seemed, the feeling was mutual.

“This is an extremely bad idea.”

He felt Sherlock’s fingers twitch through the denim of his jeans and Sherlock searched John’s eyes for confirmation.  “But you want to.”

And God forbid was he right.  He _did_ want.  And Sherlock was offering exactly what he wanted.   He should feel uncomfortable, wary, but his pulse was skyrocketing and John knew that Sherlock would notice.  His breath hitched when Sherlock’s hand moved to the button of his jeans and _goddamnit,_ this was probably the stupidest thing he’s done in his entire life and he could be fired for this, stripped of his career, his credentials, but –

“Yes,” he replied softly, as if he was imparting an important secret.  “I do.”

Something flashed in Sherlock’s eyes, but the other man didn’t allow him to process it before he was surging forward and catching his lips in a kiss.  It was sloppy yet heated and John pushed Sherlock harder against the wall, and Sherlock went willingly.  Sherlock tugged open John’s jeans and unceremoniously shoved his hand into his pants, wrapping his lithe fingers around his half hard cock.  John gasped, his hands fumbling down to Sherlock’s hips, pushing his sweats down to reciprocate.

Sherlock jerked away and shook his head.  “No.”

“What?” John asked stupidly.

The brunet smirked and removed John’s hand from his crotch while languidly stroking John into full hardness.  “No,” he repeated.  John frowned and opened his mouth to say something, _anything_ , before Sherlock slid gracefully down to his knees.  _Oh._

“Fuck,” he breathed, his heart stuttering in his chest.

Sherlock smirk widened and released John’s erection from his pants, stroking him firmly from base to tip.  He leaned forward but John suddenly blurted, “Wait!”  His hand dropped into Sherlock’s curly hair, pushing Sherlock away.  “Are you – ”

“I’m clean,” Sherlock answered, cutting him off.  “I did just come from the hospital, John.”

He frowned, “That doesn’t mean – ”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and surged forward, lapping at John’s cockhead, making him shiver and groan.   _Fuck it_ , he thought, and John braced his hands against the wall in front of him, breathing heavily, letting pleasure wash over him.  Sherlock took his time, licking up and down the shaft, nuzzling into John’s inner thigh, sucking lightly at his balls.  He hadn’t had sex in a while and the sensations were just short of driving John crazy – it was overwhelming but not quite enough.  The last time was, _shit_ , with Sherlock about a month ago and John really didn’t want to think of what that might imply.

John dropped one of his hands to curl his fingers loosely in Sherlock’s hair and tugged gently.  Sherlock looked up and their eyes locked, and Sherlock swirled his tongue around the head.  Then, without breaking eye contact, he swallowed John whole, surprising a curse out of him, his fingers clenching in Sherlock’s hair to prevent himself from snapping his hips forward.  Sherlock’s throat worked around him, his tongue wrapping around his shaft, his cheeks hollowing for the perfect hot, wet, suction.

“Damnit,” he hissed as Sherlock started to move.  His other hand cupped John’s balls gently and rolled them in his palm.  Sherlock moved just as slowly when he was teasing him with his tongue, and in the back of his mind, John realized that the brunet was _cataloguing_ him.  He should feel embarrassed, exposed, _something_ other than the white-hot pleasure of Sherlock’s mouth.  “Sherlock,” he groaned, dragging his fingernails across Sherlock’s scalp.

Sherlock pulled away suddenly with an obscene pop.  “It’s all right,” he said, stroking John firmly, his thumb swiping across the head.  “Don’t hold back.”  His voice was hoarse and deeper than his usual baritone, and that sent sparks of lust and arousal throughout John’s body.

“You – ” he started, but Sherlock cut him off.

“I’m sure.”  And Sherlock leaned in again, pulling John closer with both hands gripping his arse.  He deep throated John with ease and John let himself shift forward, his cock going impossibly deeper into Sherlock’s mouth.  Sherlock hummed his approval around him and the vibrations made John groan.  John started to thrust shallowly and Sherlock dug his fingers harder into his arse, moving his head in rhythm with John’s hips.

He started to pick up speed and Sherlock kept his throat open, not once choking on John’s cock.  Saliva dribbled down Sherlock’s chin, his cheeks flushed, and John thought that this man was absolutely gorgeous.  Sherlock kneaded his arse, one hand dipping down between his crack and he felt a finger brush lightly against his hole.  John gasped, his hips stuttering.

“Fuck, I’m – ”

He was close, and John tried to pull away but Sherlock only tugged him in closer.  John removed his hand from the Sherlock’s hair and braced himself on the wall, his rhythm erratic, his release bubbling just below the surface.  Then he felt a blunt fingertip breach his entrance, a sudden slight burn, and John came, his ejaculate filling Sherlock’s waiting mouth.  The brunet swallowed him down eagerly and John moaned softly at the sight.  Sherlock continued to suckle his cock until he was completely spent, his knees weak, his arms shaking, his breath coming in short pants.  Even when he released John from his mouth, he still licked and lapped up and down his over-sensitized shaft.

Sherlock moved his hands back to John’s hips, making small, soothing circles with his thumbs.  John sank down to his knees and shakily traced Sherlock’s jawline, his cheekbones.  Then he pressed a tentative, soft kiss on Sherlock’s swollen lips, which Sherlock returned immediately.  They kissed leisurely for several minutes before John moved his hands down Sherlock’s body, down to his crotch.  It’s been a while since he’s been with a man, and he may not be as talented with his mouth, but he could at least give Sherlock a solid hand job.  He wasn’t expecting, however, a damp patch in the front of Sherlock’s sweats and a limp cock.

John pulled away, brows furrowed.  “You – ?” he started questioningly, then glanced down between them.  He stared for several moments, then licked his lips, looking back up to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

“You came without being touched?” John asked quietly, flabbergasted.  Sherlock nodded, a small frown on his lips, and John chuckled in disbelief.  “Bloody hell.”

“What?” Sherlock said, sounding indignant.

John shook his head, amused, his cock twitching feebly in interest, and if he hadn’t just come, he would’ve right then.  “That’s incredibly hot,” he said, then captured Sherlock’s lips again.

He didn’t know how long they kissed, kneeling on the floor with his jeans and pants halfway down his thighs, but John couldn’t bring himself to care.

For now, everything was fine, and he let himself get lost in exploring Sherlock’s mouth, tasting himself on Sherlock’s tongue.  And if Sherlock clutched him closer, harder, he barely noticed.

~*+=

Lestrade finally called John a week later with a case.  It was minor, one that Lestrade still thought was too simple for Sherlock but difficult enough that he and his team were stumped.

“Why would I want to solve cases again for Scotland Yard?” Sherlock asked petulantly when John brought up Lestrade’s offer.

John sighed.  “Because I think it’d help you, Sherlock,” he said calmly.  Of course Sherlock would be stubborn; he wouldn’t have expected anything else.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, “Imbeciles.”

“ _Sherlock_.”

He huffed, “Fine.”  Sherlock eyed John, “You’re coming as well.”  He said it as a statement, but John could hear the underlying query.

“Of course.”

“Then let’s save Scotland Yard from imploding,” he said, standing swiftly and making his way to the door.  John suppressed a smile and shook his head.  He’s still not completely sure if . . . whatever they have between them would be detrimental in the long run, but for now, it seemed all right.

Sherlock chattered the entire ride to Scotland Yard, pointing out random people in the crowd as Philip drove through London, dissecting what he could with just a glimpse.  His eyes were shining, bright, and John realized that this must be the first time Sherlock was allowed out of the flat.  John also realized the flaw in keeping Sherlock locked away while he recovered.  He should have noticed sooner, really – with all of Sherlock’s random mania, John should have known that Sherlock was _bored_.

Well, of course John knew he was bored.  Who wouldn’t be with a mind like his?  But detained in a flat – granted, a large and luxurious flat in central London – for a month and a half wasn’t helping Sherlock’s need for something, _anything_ to stimulate his mind.

Mycroft should have known this, but John didn’t know what to think of the elder Holmes; whether he was truly being helpful or not.

“Ever thought of becoming a detective?” John asked when there was a lull in Sherlock’s deductions.

Sherlock glanced over to him and frowned.  “The bureaucracy of it is terribly dull.  You know as well as I do that I wouldn’t follow half the rules necessary to remain employed.”

John chuckled, “Well, you could just ask Lestrade to call you in when he needs you.  Unofficially, of course.”

“That was how it was last time.”

“You could put your name out there.  Offer your services.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, giving John a look, and John winced at his choice of words.  “Don’t apologize, I knew what you meant,” Sherlock said before John could even open his mouth.  “You’re suggesting I become a personal detective of sorts.”

John shrugged.  “Though that’s not exactly right, is it?  More like . . .”  John fished around for the right word.  “Consulting?” he suggested.

Sherlock’s lip twitched in amusement.  “A consulting detective.”

He gave him a small smile.  “Invent your own job.”

“Could be interesting.”

“’Course it would be.  You’d only do the cases you want.”

Sherlock hummed in thought and fell silent.  John could tell that he was probably miles away in his mind, so he turned his gaze back to the window, watching London pass by.  Sherlock didn’t speak for the rest of the ride, a comfortable quiet settling between them.

When they reached Scotland Yard, Sherlock’s mood shifted subtly, and John watched him closely as they climbed the stairs to the entrance of the building.  He made his way to Lestrade’s office and John followed.  He sauntered into the room, his shoulders squared.

“Detective Sergeant,” he said.

Lestrade looked up and a brief flash of surprise flitted across his eyes before it disappeared, replaced by a small but genuine smile.  “Sherlock.”

John closed the door behind him, giving them some privacy; he could see some of the officers eyeing them curiously.  Lestrade regarded Sherlock calmly and Sherlock swept his gaze around the room.  “You’re closer to your promotion,” he said absently.  “Giving you some trouble with your wife, though.  Is she complaining about you spending too much time at work?”

“ _Sherlock,_ ” John said, wincing internally.

“It’s fine, John,” Lestrade sighed, leaning back into his chair.  “Correct as always, Sherlock.”

“Of course I am.”

“And ever so modest.”

John shook his head in disbelief.  “Greg, I’m sure you know why we’re here.”

Lestrade nodded, “Yes, though I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”  He heaved himself forward and shuffled the papers on his desk around until he found a manila folder and held it out for Sherlock.  “Three murders within the last two weeks, all in different areas of London.  So far we haven’t found any connection between the victims but all three have had numbers written in the victim’s blood, starting with the Camden murder and the number five.  It’s like the killer is counting down.”

“To what?” John asked, his interest piqued despite the subject matter.

“That’s for Sherlock to find out,” Lestrade said with some amusement.  “I’m sure we’ll have the case wrapped up within a week.”

John turned to Sherlock who was quickly flipping through the papers in the folder, perusing the information and undoubtedly committing all the details to memory.

“John, we must visit the crime scenes.”

“There’s nothing there, Sher.”

“Obviously, but you likely missed something as you lot are wont to do.”

Lestrade sighed and shook his head.  “Donovan can take you – ”

“We have a driver,” Sherlock cut him off, already opening the door and sweeping out of the room.  “John.”

John watched Sherlock leave, exasperated yet amused.  He turned back to Lestrade who had a similar expression on his face.  “I’ll call or text you updates,” he said.

“Sure you will,” Lestrade said sarcastically, though not unkind.  “He’s a whirlwind, I doubt you’ll have a moment to yourself.”

John silently agreed.  “I’ll try,” he amended.

Lestrade shrugged.  “Best go after him, John.  Don’t want him off wreaking havoc on his own.”

He chuckled, “No, I suppose not.”  He turned to leave but faced Lestrade again, “Thank you, by the way.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.  “For?”

“Sherlock,” he said simply.

Lestrade inclined his head, as if in thought.  “It’s Sherlock,” he replied after a moment, as if it explained everything.  And strangely, it did.  At least, John understood the sentiment.

“Mycroft told me before he introduced us that you’re probably his first friend in a while, though he’d never admit to it,” he said, suddenly curious about their shared history.  He wasn’t sure why he was bringing it up _now_ of all times, but, well, Lestrade obviously held Sherlock in high regard and Sherlock likewise seemed to be fond of the Detective Sergeant.  It was . . . interesting, to say the least.

“Did he?” he asked, thoughtful.  “Our relationship is complicated, as is any relationship one could possibly have with Sherlock Holmes.”

John laughed at how incredibly true Lestrade’s statement was. 

“You’d better go, John,” Lestrade said, gently telling him to drop the subject.

“Yeah.  Right.  I’ll be in touch.”

“Of course.”

And John jogged out of Lestrade’s office and out of Scotland Yard.  There was definitely more to their relationship than Lestrade was letting on and John had to wonder: why was he so interested in the first place?

He shook the thought out of his mind, as he came up to an impatient Sherlock, standing next to Mycroft’s black car, Philip waiting patiently in the driver’s seat.

“What took you so long?”

“Sorry,” John said automatically.  “Lestrade and I were just talking.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing him.  John acted nonchalant and opened the back door of the car.  “Shall we?  We have a murderer to catch.”

“Yes, we do,” he said, still searching John’s face as they slid into the car.  “Camden,” he told Philip when he shut the door, his gaze still fixed on John.

John turned to face Sherlock, their eyes locking.  He waited as Sherlock searched him, deducing.  “About me,” Sherlock said after a long moment of silence.

“Yes.”  No sense in lying; Sherlock would call him out on it in a second.

Sherlock frowned, “Why?”

“He’s your friend.”

“ _Friend_ ,” Sherlock said with disdain, nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” he asked, annoyed.

John sighed, “Pretending you don’t care.”

“Who says I do?”

“People who care about you.”

“Doesn’t mean I care for them.”

John stared at him for a moment then turned away.  There was more to Sherlock’s reluctance to accept the fact that there were people who genuinely _cared_.  It was likely intertwined with his drug use, which in turn was connected to his brilliance.  But, as he expected, Sherlock was refusing to let him in.   Stubborn git.

The ride to Camden was quiet, but Sherlock kept fidgeting in his seat, unable to stay still.

“You all right?” John finally asked, breaking the silence.

Sherlock ceased his movements and frowned.  “No,” he answered after a while.

He hesitated for a second then said, “You want to talk about it?”

“No.”

John sighed and settled back into his seat, letting the subject drop.  He’d learned in the first few sessions that he could never push Sherlock to talk about things he didn’t want to talk about.  More often than not, he’d say what was on his mind in due time, but he’d close up immediately if John prodded too much.

Neither of them spoke for the rest of the ride.

~*+=

In the end, Sherlock deemed the case too simple, but he helped Lestrade catch the killer regardless.  Despite the supposed simplicity of the case, however, John could tell that Sherlock was in his element, that he enjoyed the thrill of the chase, the puzzles.

Sherlock had recognized the pattern of the killings – the first at Camden, the second at London Bridge, and the third at Edgware Road – was a half formed pentagram.

“See, John,” he said, waving a map of London in his face.  “Look at the placements of the murders, then connect them in the descending order of the numbers that were written at the crime scene.  It’s so painfully obvious and it’s ridiculous how the murderer doesn’t even seem to be _trying_.”

John resisted rolling his eyes at that last statement; of course Sherlock would be put out by an incompetent serial killer.  Though maybe _indignant_ was the better word to describe him.

Either way, John accompanied him to Liverpool Street the following night to keep an eye out.  The murders had occurred two or three days apart and that night marked the third night since the third murder.  Sherlock was positive that the killer would appear.  John wasn’t so sure.  They were, after all, dealing with a serial killer.

“It’s a pattern, John,” he refuted with all the patience of a toddler.  “Though it keeps everything organized, it makes for lousy execution.  He’s just asking to be caught.”

“He?” John asked, only half listening to Sherlock.

“It’s statistically more likely.”

“And you know this because . . . ?”

“I hacked into Scotland Yard’s database.”

“’Course you did,” he said, only mildly scandalized.  John was mostly just amused.  “So how are we supposed to know _where_ he’s going to be?  We only know the general area.”

“I have my own surveillance around London.”

John raised an eyebrow.  “Surveillance.  Like Mycroft and his traffic cameras.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, “Yes and no.”  He flopped down unceremoniously on one of the benches in front of the Liverpool Street tube station.  John sat next to him, waiting for him to continue.  “Homeless network.”

He looked over to Sherlock, surprised.  “Seriously?”

“I’m not above bribery, John.  You should know this.”

John pursed his lips but didn’t say anything.  Yes, he did, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it.  Though it wasn’t like he was _against_ it per se, but sometimes the act itself was questionable at best, deplorable at worst.  When he thought about it, both Holmes brothers bribed him in one way or another.  It shouldn’t sit well with John, being manipulated, but sometimes you couldn’t really do anything about it.

“You’re upset,” Sherlock said, breaking into his thoughts.

“What?  No.  To each his own.  It’s fine.”

Sherlock pinned him with an incredulous look and John rolled his eyes.  “I was just thinking,” he conceded, “That you and Mycroft aren’t all that different.”

That gave Sherlock pause, and John was pretty sure Sherlock took his words as an insult.  John watched Sherlock closely, and he managed to pick out some of the emotions flitting across his face.  Nostalgia followed by disgust and hurt.  There was definitely a lot of history between the two brothers and a part of him wanted to know everything, but he wouldn’t pry.  If Sherlock wanted to reveal his and Mycroft’s broken relationship and the reasons behind it, it was his decision.  John would always let Sherlock decide the extent of the information he shared.

“Don’t compare me to Mycroft,” he said finally, looking away, his shoulders tense.

“All right,” John conceded, and they fell into silence again.

It was several hours until Sherlock deemed it time to poke around the side streets.  And once they started doing that, the night got a lot more interesting.  Sherlock made contact with some of his homeless network, who pointed them towards Folgate Street.  They hid in one of the alleyways until Sherlock got bored and started to distract himself by exploring every slope and angle of John’s body.  John had pushed him away because they were _in public_ and Sherlock was groping him in _the middle of the street_ , but the brunet whinged until John relented and allowed his touch.  And _God_ , what has become of his life?

The night ended with a ridiculous chase through east London and John had never felt anything more exhilarating in a long time.  . . . Except perhaps the blowjob in the alleyway, but no one needed to know about that.

~*+=

“You should be more careful, John.”

He frowned, “About what?”

Mycroft pinned him with a look.  “I understand that however _unconventional_ your and my brother’s relationship is, he’s made remarkable improvements within the past few months.  However,” he paused and pursed his lips.  “I advise you to keep your _activities_ behind closed doors.  There’s only so much I can do to cover up potential leaks, after all.”

John blanched.  “ _What_?”

“The case you just solved, the two of you were loitering about Folgate Street, correct?  I’m surprised Sherlock didn’t notice – or perhaps he did but didn’t think anything of it – but someone of an _unsavory_ nature caught sight of you.”

John cursed under his breath.  “Who was it?”

“He’s been taken care of, I assure you.”

“ _Who was it_?” John stressed, glaring.

Mycroft sighed.  “Someone from Sherlock’s past.”

John frowned, “Meaning what, exactly?”

“He was one of Sherlock’s former contacts in the drug world.  And though he has no proof, upon seeing what you two were up to, he likely thought that Sherlock found another dealer to obtain his drugs from.  I don’t expect you to know, but the drug world is an incredibly complex and dangerous place, John.”

“And you do?”

“I make it a point to know, yes.”

John eyed him speculatively.  “Why?”

“He’s my brother, John,” Mycroft said tiredly.  “And regardless of what you or Sherlock may think, I do care.”

John sighed.  “All right.  Okay.”  He licked his lips.  “So what, then?  What should we do?”

“I’ve already been monitoring the streets, you just keep an eye on Sherlock.”

“That’s it?”

“For now, yes.  Striking preemptively may simply exacerbate the problem.”

“Does Sherlock know?”

Mycroft raised an amused eyebrow, “He was rather preoccupied at the time don’t you think?”

John fought the urge to blush and settled for glaring hard at the elder Holmes.  Mycroft simply shrugged and said, “Perhaps.  There is little that passes by Sherlock’s gaze, after all.”

“Right.”

“Be careful, John.”

John nodded curtly and took his leave.

~*+=

Another month passed with little event and Sherlock was doing well.  Sherlock moved out of Mycroft’s flat – much to Sherlock’s relief – and relocated to Baker Street.  The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was apparently an old acquaintance he’d helped while he was in Florida while he travelled the world.  He’d been steadily gaining weight, his bouts of depression and mania were fewer and far between, and Lestrade had called Sherlock in on more of his cases.  John kept an eye out as Mycroft suggested, and he had an inkling that Sherlock knew that he was being a bit more cautious and aware of his surroundings.  He never mentioned it, though.

And, thankfully, John’s fear of Sherlock latching onto him as a crutch had been unwarranted.  They were still intimate, but it started to become more than something for Sherlock to focus on.  John still felt mildly guilty about their unconventional relationship, but at the same time . . . it was _Sherlock_.

One day, Sherlock was more distant than usual, his hands steepled in front of his mouth, his eyes staring off into nothing.  John’s questions garnered no answer from Sherlock and John, though worried, let it go.  Sometimes Sherlock would slip into one of his moods ignore anything and everything that passed his way; it usually lifted after a few days.

A week later, however, he got a phone call from a distraught and agitated Lestrade.  “It’s Sherlock,” was all he needed to say and John was tearing his way towards Baker Street.  Halfway there, however, Lestrade informed him that Sherlock had been relocated to a hospital.

“ _What_?  What’s happened?”

“As far as we can tell at the moment, it looks like an overdose.”

John’s heart dropped.  In the few short months of their acquaintance, John thought – _foolishly_ – that it would be over soon.  He should have known better, though.  It was never that easy, never that simple.  Sherlock told him once that his mind was like an engine racing out of control, a rocket tearing itself to pieces trapped on the Launchpad.  If he didn’t have constant stimulation he’d go mad.  John understood – as much as he could, anyway.  The cases helped, but when they lagged, Sherlock’s mind would start to rip itself apart.

And John surmised that that was the reason Sherlock had turned to cocaine in the first place.  He wanted the monotony, the _boredom_ , to stop.

He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but John had to prepare himself for the worst.  Sherlock had been doing so well, but John had a suspicion that there was _something more_ that they were missing.  So instead of changing direction and heading to the hospital first, John went to Sherlock’s flat.

“Mrs. Hudson!” John called when he let himself in to 221B.  He loitered in the hallway until Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat.  “Mrs. Hudson, was there anything off with Sherlock for the past week, week and a half?” he asked, not letting her get a word in.

“I don’t know, John,” she said haltingly, taken aback.  “He seemed normal.  As normal as Sherlock ever is, you know.  Playing the violin at all hours of the day, and sometimes I’d hear an explosion.  Not a large one, mind, but loud enough that I’d worry about the state of my kitchen.”

John cursed softly.  “Anything else?”

“Well, I did hear someone go upstairs late last night – I couldn’t get to sleep – and I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Sherlock definitely had visitors.  Then this morning the Detective Sergeant came by and found Sherlock passed out on the couch with a needle in his arm.”  Mrs. Hudson bit her lip.  “I don’t know, John.  I really don’t know.”

John nodded, “Okay.”  He brought her in for a brief hug.  “Why don’t you make yourself a cuppa, I’m just going to pop upstairs and have a look around.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded, looking a bit shaken.  “Yes, all right.  You’ll have one, too?”

“Yeah, sure,” he agreed distractedly.  He watched Mrs. Hudson shuffle back into her flat before he ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time.  John took a breath before he opened the door, bracing himself for whatever he may see on the other side.  The sitting room looked virtually untouched – _too_ neat, as Sherlock would say.  Well, he was learning something from the brunet, at least.

His eyes roved around the room, up the bookshelves, down to the floor, and across the walls.  He couldn’t find anything out of place, but John knew inherently that he was missing something.  John stepped further into the flat, moving closer to the couch.  On a whim, John knelt and started to dig between the cushions.  His fingers brushed against something and John groped blindly for the object.  He pulled it out.

It was a key attached to a long metal chain.  John frowned, certain that this wasn’t the key to the flat.  What was it for, then?  He stood and walked over to Sherlock’s cluttered desk.  There was nothing amongst the papers and books that hinted at what the key was for.  Then again, Sherlock wouldn’t have kept something like that out in the open, and on top of that, he’d never have found anything if Sherlock hadn’t _wanted_ it to be found.  So the key had been planted purposefully.

John pursed his lips and slipped the key into his pocket.  He’d have to head to the hospital next.  Depending on the dosage, however, Sherlock could be unconscious for several days.  He’ll just have to keep the key safe in the mean time.  John turned and headed back down the stairs.  “Mrs. Hudson,” he called, knocking on her door.  “I have to go to the hospital.  Sorry, but I’ll have to pass on the cup of tea.”

He heard her moving around and the door opened moments later.  “Shall I come with you?  The Detective Sergeant told me to stay here, but it’s _Sherlock_ and I’m worried.”

John gave her a small smile, “Yeah, if you want.  I’ll go get a cab.”

She nodded and disappeared back into her flat.  He let out a breath and headed out the door, managing to flag down the first cab to pass by.  A minute later, and Mrs. Hudson as bustling out onto the street, and John helped her into the taxi before getting in after her.  The ride to the hospital was quiet; neither really having anything to say besides what had already been spoken.

When they finally made it to the hospital, Mycroft had already come and gone, but Lestrade was still in the waiting room.  He stood when John and Mrs. Hudson approached and updated them with whatever he knew.  The substance they found in Sherlock’s system was a mixture that the doctor’s hadn’t seen before.  They could, however, pick out amphetamines, cocaine, and heroin.  Just the list of those three drugs made John cringe.  Lestrade exchanged a look with John and Lestrade took Mrs. Hudson gently by the arm and sat her down.  John slipped around the corner and pulled out his mobile and phoned Mycroft.

“John,” he said as way of greeting.

“Anything?  Aside from what the hospital’s telling us?”

Mycroft sighed, “I doubt he administered the drugs himself, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, I didn’t think so.”

“Really?” he asked, and John could here the mild surprise in his voice.

“He hasn’t had an episode in weeks, Mycroft.  And something about this whole mess just feels _off_.  Especially the substances they found in his system.”

“Ah, yes.  That tipped me off as well.”  A pause, then, “My surveillance around Sherlock’s flat caught three or four men on video entering 221B, but it blacked out for several hours.  Someone interfered with the video.”

“Interfered?” John asked, tense.  “Who?  Why?”

“Vengeance?  Blackmail?  There’s a whole list of possibilities at the moment, John.”

John growled, “Okay, so we know that someone _purposefully_ drugged Sherlock, and the mixture itself is an extremely dangerous combination.  It’s almost like – ”

“They want him addicted again,” Mycroft finished for him.

John licked his lips.  “Yeah.”  He sighed, “This is probably because of what happened a month ago at Folgate Street, isn’t it?”

“Possibly.  There is no guarantee.”

“Perfect.  So now we have a drug lord after us.”

“Quite possibly, yes,” Mycroft said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“You’re such a bloody wanker.”

“Much obliged, John,” Mycroft said dryly.  “In any case, I will update you on anything I find.  Take care of Sherlock in the mean time, John.  He may wake sooner than you expect.”

“I will.”

John hung up and made his way back to the waiting room.  Lestrade was still there, sitting silently next to Mrs. Hudson.  He settled in with them, prepared to wait for as long as necessary until Sherlock woke.

~*+=

Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade had left hours ago, but John refused to go.  When a nurse came by for the fifth time, he was prepared for a confrontation, but the nurse simply told him which room Sherlock was in and to please not disturb the patient.  John sat dumbfounded for a moment before realizing that Mycroft probably pulled some strings to allow John to stay in Sherlock’s room overnight.

Naturally.

John made his way to Sherlock’s room – private with an ensuite bathroom.  Also likely courtesy of Mycroft – and settled himself in the relatively plush chair next to the bed.  Sherlock was incredibly pale and hooked up to a myriad of machines.  He scowled at the thought of someone forcing Sherlock to inject drugs into his system.  Though, he had to wonder if he had done it for a _reason_.  Sherlock likely wouldn’t have caved under any threat to himself, but perhaps if it were directed to someone else he would have acquiesced to their threats.  At the same time, however, John couldn’t see Sherlock in that kind of a position.  It wasn’t that _John_ didn’t know that Sherlock did genuinely care for a handful of people, but that Sherlock probably wouldn’t have wanted to reveal his weakness.

He sighed, leaning forward onto the bed and resting his head on his arms.  For now, it didn’t matter.  All that mattered was for Sherlock to wake up and be all right.

~*+=

John was slowly pulled from sleep with the feeling of fingers running through his hair.  He sighed in contentment, but grunted when his neck twinged in pain.  A soft chuckle came from somewhere from his right, and he frowned and blinked his eyes open.  He turned and saw the lightly amused and fond expression of Sherlock and he sat up suddenly, dislodging the hand from his head.

“Sherlock!  You’re awake!”

“John,” he said, a small smile on his lips.

“Bloody hell, you fucking scared me!”

“I apologize.”

John huffed, “Sure you do.”  He ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.  “You okay?”

Sherlock tilted his head at the question, as if contemplating a difficult question.  “Yes and no,” he finally said.  “Physically and mentally I’ll be all right, but it appears that I’ll have my work cut out for me.”

John raised an eyebrow.  “Your work.  God, don’t tell me – ”

“John, the drug dealers that _apprehended_ me the other night,” he interrupted, his nose wrinkled in disdain, “Won’t be the only ones.”

“And?  There’s a catch, I know there is.”

Sherlock smirked.  “We’re going to get to them first.”

John’s jaw dropped, but quickly snapped it closed.  “You’re going to hunt them down.  Seriously,” he said, incredulous.

“Well I was hoping you’d join me,” Sherlock replied, his tone confident but there was a vulnerability in his eyes.

“You want me to?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes.”

“I won’t be any help at all.”  John frowned.  What was Sherlock thinking?

“Don’t be ridiculous, John.  You’re indispensable.”

“Okay,” he said slowly, licking his lips.  “Say we do this, _how_ exactly are we doing this?”

“There’s a key back at the flat,” Sherlock said promptly.  “That’s our first lead.”

“The key you shoved into the cushions.”

Sherlock perked up, “You found it?”  John nodded and pulled it out of his pocket.  Sherlock full on grinned.  “See, John.  You’re helping me already.”

John laughed softly in disbelief.  “So how’d you get this?”

“I pick-pocketed them when they were distracted,” he said, nonchalant.

This made John laugh outright.  “You’re really something, Sherlock.”

His expression turned fond again before it disappeared.  He frowned as he looked John up and down and John shifted, unsure of what Sherlock was looking for.  “You’re not asking why,” he said after a moment.

“Why what?” John asked, confused.  Sherlock pinned him with a look and a raised eyebrow.  “Oh.  Well, I figured if you wanted to tell me why then you would.  Though Mycroft and I had a feeling that the drugs weren’t your doing.”

“You had that much faith in me?” he asked, a bit awed.

“Yes,” he replied truthfully.  “I do.”

Sherlock stared at him for a second then turned away, and John understood.  Sherlock, despite his confidence and bravado, arrogance and sharp tongue, likely never _had_ that kind of faith or trust given to him before and didn’t know what to do with it.  Didn’t think he _deserved_ it.

John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand in his own.  “Hey,” he said softly.  “We’ll tear them down.  Together.”

Sherlock brought his gaze back to him and they locked eyes.  He didn’t look away; allowed Sherlock to scrutinize him, let him see how truthful he was being.  Because despite _how_ their relationship might have started, how unorthodox it may be, they were stuck together, there was a level of trust between them they couldn't deny.  And in a few short months, John could no longer imagine _not_ having Sherlock in his life.

John watched as Sherlock slowly, eventually came to the same conclusion.  Then finally, after long moments, Sherlock gave John a small smile and nodded.  He squeezed John’s hand and said, “Together.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck me, I just realized that I ended my other AO3 auction fic with John in the hospital. Look how original I am. Ugh, I'm sorry. -__-
> 
> Anyway, there is potential for a sequel, but I really need to take a break from this 'verse for a while.


End file.
